


thief of fire

by ewelinakl



Series: between the lines [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon verse, M/M, am i suggesting that Jaskier is more powerful than he (or anyone else) thinks? maybe, set during Something More
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22683439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewelinakl/pseuds/ewelinakl
Summary: "If it was my story," Jaskier says (...), "the Witcher would find the Princess. He would travel, having abandoned all hope, sure she must have died, only to find her alive in the end, waiting for him. And he would take her in his arms and promise her he'd never leave her again."
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: between the lines [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615669
Comments: 6
Kudos: 158





	thief of fire

> “The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire. He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none.”
> 
> Arthur Rimbaud

Half-dead and half-conscious on the cart, Geralt heard a song.

He knew it. He’d heard it before, somewhere, sometime. It was a simple, touching tune capable of drawing tears. It could be one of Jaskier’s songs. Geralt never paid enough attention to Jaskier’s songs. He treated them as background noise, unimportant, invaluable. But now, he hoped he wouldn't die without hearing one more ballad from this beautiful bastard, from this infuriating idiot.

He sighed, feeling the melody from the dream fleeting. He couldn’t catch it, remember the words.

“It’s alright, Master Witcher,” Yurga said, misinterpreting Geralt’s sigh. “It’s alright, just a bump on the road. Sleep, Master Witcher, we still have a while to go.”

Geralt rolled his head to the side, inhaling the scent of fields and meadows, cornflower and chamomile. If he survived, he thought, closing his eyes, he’d be kinder to his bard, he’d listen to every song, every tirade on clothing or petty drama, he’d tell Jaskier just how much he appreciated him, how grateful he was for everything.

The cart rocked on the uneven road, the scent of chamomile heavy in the warm air, and slowly, Geralt drifted into sleep, following a half-forgotten melody, a few simple, heart-breaking chords, and words on love and destiny.

*

Jaskier's heart beats fast and uneven, it sounds almost like a snare drum on a military parade or announcing an execution. It's deafening in Geralt's ears and combined with the sour scent of fear, it drives the witcher mad.

"Jaskier," he says, trying to soften his voice.

Jaskier flinches, his fingers clasp tighter on Roach's mane, making her snort and toss her head. "I'm sorry," Jaskier whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm just still—"

Terrified. Like a mouse sensing a diving falcon.

Geralt sighs, reaching for his coat and throwing it over Jaskier's shoulders. He’s usually far calmer when he’s warm. Jaskier wraps it tight around himself, pressing back against Geralt's chest, but his heart doesn’t slow down. Geralt gathers Roach's reins in one hand, wrapping his other arm around Jaskier's waist, nosing against the bard's ear.

"I told you I'm not leaving," he says.

"You said you were going to cross the river with me," Jaskier replies, his whisper barely louder than the leaves crackling above their heads, still green, but paler than just a few days ago. "We crossed it."

Geralt pulls the bard closer to himself, kissing the top of his ear. There’s no one on the old path through the forest, he can afford this little display of affection.

"I'm not leaving," he assures. “I’m taking you north, somewhere safe and cozy.”

Jaskier nods, the sigh he lets out barely audible, full of relief. His body softens in Geralt’s embrace, shoulders relax, head falls back against the witcher’s collar bone. He was scared that Geralt would abandon him on the other side of Jaruga. This foolish cowardly bard. Geralt snorts quietly and the sour scent of fear dissipates slowly, drowned out by the chamomile of Jaskier’s hair.

The sun is setting and Geralt begins to look for a place to spend the night. He needs it to be safe, sheltered from the biting morning cold, hidden from the eyes of whoever might be taking this old path through the woods, but at the same time, Geralt needs to be able to keep an eye on the road. He needs to hear everything without being heard by others.

It's not easy to find a place like that, especially when he has to take into account things like Jaskier's penchant for comfort, his extravagant bright clothes that draw attention and offer no protection from cold, and just how _loud_ Jaskier is, especially when he tries not to be.

Eventually, he settles for a small clearing under a spruce tree, its branches hanging low, shielding them from wind and view while allowing Geralt to see through them. The needles will get caught in their clothes and hair, but they smell nice and will make far less noise than fallen leaves. It's good enough.

Geralt sets a camp, ignoring Jaskier's disheartened pout. He'd prefer a room with a proper dinner and a proper bed, too, but they are days away from any settlement that offers such a luxury, and if they truly have a Nilfgaardian army at their heels, they wouldn’t be able to afford it anyway.

"No fire?" Jaskier asks pitifully when Geralt finishes creating a makeshift mattress of what he has at hand, which is mainly fallen spruce needles and a few blankets, all of them thin and smelling of horse sweat.

"Not unless you want to be seen by everyone and their mother," he says, reaching into his saddlebags to retrieve some slightly stale bread and hard cheese, his trusty travel companions that he'd love to trade for some hot stew with meat in it. Or just vegetables, really, some cabbage, carrots.

Jaskier looks at the food Geralt offers him and sighs, pulling out a bottle of Geralt's liquor. Well, that's one way to make the meal more palatable.

They eat in silence and Geralt keeps looking at his bard. Jaskier is never quiet unless something is seriously wrong. Geralt just doesn't understand what it could be. Is he sulking about the food and the lack of fire? That would be ridiculous. Is he still worried Geralt will just disappear and leave him alone among the panicked crowds fleeing from the war? No, that's not it, either.

It's only after they lay down to sleep, that Jaskier turns, shifting closer to Geralt and resting a hand on his chest, and says, "Tell me about her. The Princess."

Geralt looks down on him, his face white with an almost bluish tint to it in the moonlight, mouth pressed together, brows knitted in this strangely determined expression he makes when he's trying to match a story idea with the right tune. And it's such a Jaskier thing to do — ignore the world burning down around them and instead ask for romantic tales of princesses promised to witchers, tales of ancient laws that should be long out of use, but brought back by fools like Geralt.

And he's shocked to realise that Jaskier doesn't know about it yet, that Geralt hasn't told him before, not after that fateful night that saw a witcher set a foolish price, not after the six years when the witcher came to see the child and left it with their family, not after destiny got tired of waiting and pushed the child into Geralt's arms in the heart of the Brokilon forest, not after he defied the destiny once more, sending the child away with Mousesack. How come he never told Jaskier about it, how come he never found the time? They've seen each other in the meantime, so many times, they kept running into each other in the strangest of places, yet somehow Geralt didn't get to mention his destiny chasing him, the consequences of his foolish mistake being thrust into his embrace when he least expected.

Being around Jaskier, being _with_ Jaskier was easy, it has always been easy and maybe that's why. Yen knows, she's known for a long time, because Geralt is more somber around her because she makes him think and talk about things that he'd rather bury deep inside his mind. And that's good, he supposes. But with Jaskier it's so much simpler because Jaskier expects nothing, he doesn't need Geralt to spill his every secret, he just listens and pieces the stories together from the smallest details.

If Jaskier asks now, it's not because he really needs to know. He's curious, yes, he's always been curious, too curious for his own safety, but he could make out the story on his own, he doesn't need to hear it from Geralt. He asks for Geralt's sake. He asks because he sees this tale choking Geralt. He asks because he knows Geralt needs to express his doubt and guilt, to say that maybe, if he took this child like he should have as he promised, maybe this child would be alive now, this little girl with hair the colour of ash and the greenest eyes, this little girl that believed he was her destiny, the girl he failed, the girl he killed. Jaskier asks so he can listen and offer comfort, compassion, absolution that Geralt doesn't deserve, but relishes in.

"If it was my story," Jaskier says later when Geralt is almost drifting into sleep, "the Witcher would find the Princess. He would travel, having abandoned all hope, sure she must have died, only to find her alive in the end, waiting for him. And he would take her in his arms and promise her he'd never leave her again."

Geralt says nothing, only pulling Jaskier closer, breathing in the chamomile of his golden hair, imagining this scene — himself on his knees and Ciri, his Child Surprise, his destiny, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Everything is easy with Jaskier, even believing in stories. The real world isn't as beautiful and kind as the world painted by his bard. In reality, he won't find Ciri safe and sound at the end of the world. But just for this night, Geralt lets himself believe this beautiful lie, lets himself dream of taking Ciri up the rocky paths leading to Kaer Morhen.

He falls asleep with Jaskier humming softly into his chest, the story of the Lion Cub of Cintra finding its melody along the way.

*

Geralt saw Yurga with his wife and wished he was an emotionless mutant. When he heard children's voices, he just turned away. He couldn’t watch the boys reuniting with their father, because despite everything people said, despite his best wishes, Geralt had a heart, and hearts were breakable things.

He was fiddling with his bag, trying to tune out the scene behind him, trying to think of something, anything, when—

“Geralt!”

Suddenly there was silence. He could no longer hear Yurga and his family, the crickets in the grass, the birds in the sky. There were only this thin, childish voice and a melody, the melody Jaskier hummed to him, when—

Geralt turned around, slowly, unready to wake up from this cruel dream. Because it couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.

But she was there, just as he remembered her — small, thin, with ashy hair and huge eyes green as grass in the spring. Her little face crumpled as she darted towards him and he moved as well, opening his arms.

Geralt traveled long and far, having abandoned all hope. But he found her in the end, he found her waiting for him, for her destiny. He dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms, this delicate little bird, this child he should’ve protected, this child he feared he killed.

He still heard the melody when he answered her frantic questions with promises that he was going to keep.

He would never leave her again. For she was more than his destiny. So much more.


End file.
